


Paper Cuts

by Su_Whisterfield



Series: No Man An Island [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 09:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Su_Whisterfield/pseuds/Su_Whisterfield
Summary: Companion piece to ‘Strong’. Wolverine has been out doing what he does. All Kurt has to do is read the reports afterwards. Easy job, right?Spoilers for issue 1 of X Force.
Relationships: Logan/Kurt Wagner
Series: No Man An Island [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544137
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	Paper Cuts

Someone, somewhere is flaying Neena alive.  
We don’t know who, we don’t know where, but the evidence was sewn into the skins of the mercenaries who attacked us today. 

Neena. Domino. She’s a tough woman, a fighter, a killer. I don’t know her very well, wouldn’t really call her a close friend, but she’s a person, a thinking, feeling person, and she’s one of us. I wouldn’t want this done to an animal, let alone to her. We have to get her back. The report is brief on details, but high on horror. When I finish it, I’m physically sick, fortunately, there’s no one there to see.

Then there’s the file from Kitty, Kate, on the Russian refugees. More horror, more pain and anguish, most of these are women and children. Children. Children whose only mistake was to be born with the wrong genes. The hurt presses down on me like a physical thing. 

I put the paperwork down, drink some more water to try and wash the taste of bile from my throat.  
Looking out over Krakoa, spread beneath the window, a jewelled patchwork of rainbow lights. Why is it so wrong to want somewhere of our own? Somewhere safe? The images in the files dance before my eyes every time I close my eyes.

There’s someone at the door. I really don’t want to see anyone.  
But the door opens anyway, because it’s him and it knows I won’t turn him away.

He’s a mess, foul with blood and bodily fluids. He stinks, his eyes are bleak and empty.  
I’m an idiot, upset over reports when he and Kate and Neena are out there spilling blood for our cause.

I lead him through to the bathroom, he’s switched off, hiding his mind from the result of his killing. His state sanctioned killing. Sanctioned by people like me. The blood of those mercenaries is on my hands too. And through them, Neena’s. There are no innocents here. Apart from the children we are trying to protect.

I clean him off, I’ve done this before, he trusts me. The smell is vile, I want to gag, I won’t gag, my disgust is not with him. I hate what this does to him. What we ask him to do. The price he pays. 

But the water is warm and soothing, for both of us. On my knees before him. Good Catholic men do not give their friends blow jobs in the shower. Good Catholic men do not love mass murderers either, but, here we are.

I know what this looks like, I know what I look like, doing this, what others think.  
But this connection, it’s real, it’s warm, it’s healthy, it’s good for both of us. I learned a very long time ago not to care what others think of me.

I know I need this as much as he does; he needs the link with something, someone, warm and living. I need. I need. I don’t know what I need. But the sweet-salt taste of his cock in my mouth, the smell of him, his heavy, killing hands in my hair, I need this too. For a few minutes the pictures behind my eyes are not of crying, emaciated children or Neena’s flayed skin.  
He comes in my mouth and I swallow, it washes away the taste of bile. His hands run through my hair.

“You don’t need to...” his voice is horse, but he has it back again.  
I stand up, I’m taller than him. His arms come around me and I lean into his strength; there is nowhere safer on earth. “I know I don’t. It’s gift, freely given.”  
He kisses my forehead. “I don’t deserve you.”  


We help towel each other dry. Of course, it takes much longer to dry my fur than his short, hairy ass. I’m too tired and drained to be aroused; I’ve been in emergency meetings all day, but the sensation of being rubbed down is soothing, the tension in my own shoulders is easing. Different sort of stress to his.  
He lies on his back, heavy, solid, secure and I get to use him as a pillow. 

“Elf? What’s up?”  
He won’t let me get away with not answering. That’s the deal; he comes to me when he feels his connection with his humanity slipping and I go to him when I need someone to lean on. But it’s just paperwork. While others die or kill to keep me, and those like me, safe.  
“Neena. The Russian refugees... I can’t...” His huge hands stroke my back, soothing.  
“You can, you do. We’ll get her home. I promise.”

I nod, but the images in the reports still dance behind my eyes. Oh, God. Neena. Before Krakoa, Neena and I were running a workshop together, for mutants, accepting who we are. They’re skinning her alive! She’s still alive. The horror rises in me, I’m gagging on it, choking, drowning. Dear, sweet, Lord, please, please help her.  
When I start sobbing, he holds me, lets me cry it out. He doesn’t shame me for my weakness, just strokes my hair.  
My friend. My best friend. I could not keep doing this without him.

And I have to keep doing this. That’s my role now, not going out and saving people or going out and killing people, but having the guts to send others, to send him. And to deal with the paperwork afterwards.

  
I fall asleep listening to his heartbeat and feeling his hand still stroking my back and he keeps my demons at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> I wondered what was going on in Kurt’s head during the previous vignette?


End file.
